woman sitting on concrete block

The Truth Is, I Miss Him

I miss the feeling of being touched. The feeling of his fingers running softly across my cheeks, his hands gripping in my hips, his lips slowly coming in for a kiss.

I miss the feeling of being listened to. Almost done with a bottle of gin, he comes over and sits beside me, taking my feet on his legs and massaging them as I pour out all my pain.

I miss his love. Walking in the middle of the night with only rusty lamp posts to guide us as we go, holding my hand as he followed me wherever I took him. We reached places I could never go to alone during the day, let alone at dark.

I miss his voice. Speaking to me softly, telling me I was beautiful as I sat on top of him. Whispering to me that in a perfect world, we’d be together and happy.

I miss texts. Asking me if he could come over, letting me know he was lost, laughing because he couldn’t find the street my house was on.

I miss the way the stars lit up when we were together. Nowadays, they’ve been dull. He’d talk to be about his favorite constellation. He had it in his body naturally as beauty marks. I took a picture of it and thought about getting it as a tattoo in the hopes of keeping him present and near me.

I miss watching him dance. To a song that was overrated. To a song I know I hated but began to love because of the memories it brought back to me.

I miss him. The entirety of his being. His presence. His body. Him.

I miss him, and every day it hurts. It’s not constant, but it comes in waves. And when it hits, I miss him.

About the author
Where my failed love stories lay to rest. Follow Kristel on Instagram or read more articles from Kristel on Thought Catalog.

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